


suntan

by puppydeanandjen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Denial of Feelings, Early in Canon, Feelings, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No verbal consent, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/puppydeanandjen
Summary: Playing pretend has become the definition of their lives now and Sam struggles to find a code word that will finally reveal the truth.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58
Collections: #ficwip





	suntan

**Author's Note:**

> Henlo, so I uh started this fic several months ago and then I fell out of the fandom, so I never ended up finishing it. But then I suddenly got a rush of feelings about them last night and I ended up finishing the fic. :) 
> 
> This is inspired by Jack Stauber's Two Time (again I know). Especially the lyric: 'We could leave the lights on. Suntan' 
> 
> I'd like to thank @nightsammy on ao3 for betaing my fic and reassuring me that it was good. I really couldn't have done it without you. ❤
> 
> All mistakes are on my butt. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope that you guys enjoy! ♡

Sam has gotten better at this, locating Dean in pitch black motel rooms. Lights turned off and curtains drawn closed, he can barely make out his brother’s face. 

But his hands find the things he can’t see: the curves of Dean’s baby soft skin. Fingers roam around everywhere to feel and explore things he can’t with the lights on. 

They’ve been doing this ever since that drunken night on the anniversary of Jess’ death. 

This is normal. 

They’re on Sam’s bed this time; the two barely able to fit on the queen sized mattress. Dean had initiated it, crawled into the bed in the middle of the night and stripped off both of their clothes slowly and gently, relishing the moment that they both knew was fleeting.

Dean’s lying on top of him now—heavy against Sam’s chest—with his chin on Sam’s shoulder and his fingers curled around Sam’s biceps, naked and still, relinquishing himself to Sam’s disposal. Sam’s hand runs down his brother’s back; the smooth, built muscle reflecting the sliver of moonlight that escapes through the closed curtains. His other hand traces around Dean’s hole: already all slicked and loose. Probably stretched himself out in the bathroom when he was showering since Dean’s the one who picked up dinner. 

The image of Dean leaning against the wall, reaching behind himself with his legs spread as he carefully stuck a wet finger inside himself suddenly invades Sam’s head. Dean’s cock filling with interest, biting back a moan under the thrum of water hitting his back as he begins to stretch himself open more. He wonders if Dean thought about him, thought about Sam’s dick splitting him apart. 

He knows that Dean is yearning for that now. 

Blindly, he grabs at the lube bottle that Dean placed beside him and coats his fingers in the cold liquid. He slides one in: flesh warm and pliant and wet like Sam had thought it would be. There’s a hitch in the puff of breath against his ear and a light vibration thrumming through Dean’s body. He goes slow, testing against the clenching walls as he fucks Dean with his fingers. Bitten back whimpers and pants resound in his ear, but his brother doesn’t say anything. Won’t say anything. Because that’s the rule: once the lights go off, there’s nothing to be said. 

Dean’s dick is squashed against Sam’s own bare cock, hardening even more under the assault. He can feel his big brother quivering under his touch. Skin is searing hot from heat. Cheeks probably flushed in reds. Eyes probably shut so tightly. If only he could see it.

But, for right now, that fatal expression is reserved for fantasy. 

“S—,” Dean chokes mid-word, teeth roughly sinking into the flesh of Sam’s shoulder to keep quiet, as Sam hits the spot. It hurts like hell—the bite—and it’ll definitely leave a mark, but it’s worth the tiny, subtle twitches and breathes and muffled moans and groans emitting from his brother. 

_ “Okay Dean,” _ he thinks before flipping them over. 

—

It’s not a surprise when Sam wakes up alone that morning. Naked in bed with nothing, but the wet memories sticking to his skin and the taste of dry disappointment in his mouth. The other bed beside him is empty, holding only crinkled sheets and pillows; a reminder of what he can’t really have. 

The door clicks open as hinges begin to creak and Sam sits up, rubbing his strained eyes. 

It’s Dean, wearing that familiar, old leather jacket with a brown paper bag and a newspaper in hand; an ‘I found us a case’ smirk across his face. Normal as if last night's events hadn’t even occurred. But those dark bags tinted in red under those dull green eyes tell of different tales. Tell of the tales he didn’t get to see. 

“Breakfast,” Dean says, unsettlingly chipper, acting. 

Because that silence is a code word for ‘we don’t talk about it’ and darkness is a code word for ‘it never really happened’.

This is why he never searches for more. 

It’s summer, but Sam wonders when winter will finally pass. 

—

They’re heading north, up to Wyoming. Carcasses and corpses without hearts scattered across the forests in a small town there. According to the article Dean gave him, people have said that they’ve spotted shadows of what seem to be wolves traveling across the terrain, hearing their howls echoing throughout the night. Sounds standard; simple. 

Everything they—right now—were not. 

It’s a quiet ride—with the radio spitting out classic rock because it’s _ Dean _ driving—yet the stifling pressure hanging in the cramped atmosphere doesn’t allow for any serenity. Sam’s pretending not to know, staring at the book about mythical beasts and the newspaper articles in his lap, but not really reading it—feigning ignorance. But he can only pretend.

The light sting on his shoulder prevents him from forgetting and the rough rub of fabric against the wound every time he moves makes it harder to ignore. A reminder from this morning when he stared into his reflection: black and blue indents blooming across the patch of skin. 

_ It never really happened. _

But the marks say otherwise. 

They’ll fade soon enough, but he knows that those temporary tattoos will end up bleeding from the flesh and into his soul. Connect him to things that he can’t have, that he shouldn’t want in that way. Because it’s Dean: his big brother who had to fit into both parental roles to ensure that Sam could survive and flourish in a home that could never be normal. 

_ We don’t talk about it _

But what if we did? 

‘I think that I like you,’ Sam would say like it’s a breath that he’s finally been able to exhale and Dean would reply, in a cheerfully cocky sort of way, ‘Is that right?’. It’s not an answer, but at least it’s there. Out in the open and acknowledged.

Because nothing hurts more than the silence. 

Than this ‘thing’ they have being forgotten, swept away under the seats with hands over ears to muffle its cries as if it didn’t exist in the first place. Not in this home.

Sam’s greatest fear is that _ he’s _ the only one who’s afraid of that. 

That, in the end, it was just touch—the need to feel something tangible and stable in their ever-changing lives or to get rid of all the pent up aggression from hunts. That there was nothing more to it. That all these churning emotions inside him are vile and wrong and _ not reciprocated _. 

That, instead of flowers, his heart is blooming weeds. 

A truth that he could never face.

Maybe, that’s why he’s doing this, prolonging the inevitable by continuing to live in this corrupt paradise of the in-between like one of those love struck, little girls who play silly games and share giggling whispers with their friends on the playground during recess: 

_ ‘He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me because I don’t know what to do if he loves me not’ _

But Sam knows that if they continue down this path, at least one of their hearts will eventually break.

—

Werewolf blood isn’t a very pleasant smell and having it slathered all over his clothes and skin is just making it worse. It’s sticking to places that he doesn’t want it to stick and there’s a raunchy stench up his nose, trapped within the car that swims through the rain even though it was sunny during the day. It reminds him of the events that transpired earlier in that small cabin hidden by the forest and the night. Bodies sprawled across the floors as blood seeps into the wood. Each of the five werewolves—the pack—all having matching bullet holes on their chest, exactly where the heart is. 

Sam recalls the way Dean looked as he killed the last one: fingers curled around the trigger of the shotgun, aiming right at the chest of the incoming werewolf; red splattering across freckled, pale cheeks as a shot rang out; darkened green eyes piercing through the body as it fell to the floor; soft lips parting to release a sigh when it had finally landed limp; sturdy, taut muscles slowly unwinding while the glistening, white moonlight completely washed over him as if that light had returned to its rightful owner then and there.

The blood crescent could drive anyone—who dares to look at it—mad, become completely enraptured by its alluring, mystical glow. Sam’s already been caught in that so long ago that he doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t. 

Maybe because he’s always been crazy, normal came to be strange. 

Jess and the taste of ordinary that followed with her was unlike anything he’s ever seen: something he could have. Adoring her was easy; they had clicked together like Legos, bantering like they’d known each other for forever and more. There was always a grin to be found with her. 

She was light in the purest form. She was reawakening. She was everything Sam needed at that time. And he loved her for who she is.

But then Dean stepped back into his life with easy smiles and cocky words and Jess had shriveled up on that burning ceiling and Sam fell back into a coma. 

This time, however, it’s harder to recall the distinctions between lust and order.

Now, he can’t deny the fact that his heart raced whenever Dean just stands a little too close to him. That his body would heat in the places where Dean had touched him. That his dick hardened as Dean’s pink lips would obscenely wrap around a straw. 

All the things he used to blame on puberty. On being a stupid adolescent with stupid hormones. 

He wants Dean and Dean to want him; a fact that’s become clearer than ever now that they’re fucking every single week, every single night some weeks, sleep be damned. The sacrifice is worth it, although, because his rewards are the pleasurable tightness or fullness that fills him with this searing feeling inside his gut that blurs the whole world away and all that’s left is them: alone, but together.

And, god, he reeks; Dean too. So he really shouldn’t be having these thoughts.

It hasn’t even been seven days since they last had sex. 

He’s becoming increasingly desperate like an addict, but with a more wrong and potent addiction. It’s only getting worse. There’s no stopping it from running down his veins. No way to climb back up out of this hole. 

He wonders what's at the bottom—if there even is a bottom—of all this. 

—

“I’m showering first,” Dean states when they finally make it back to the motel room. 

“Fuck no,” Sam retorts, glaring at the back of Dean’s head as he follows through the door. He’s hungry and gross and horny: the worst combination of emotions. He just wants to jack off in the shower with images of his big brother from earlier. Having full on sex right now is too much, too often. “You always get the first shower. It’s my turn.”

Dean twists back to him with a grouchy face that tells that he’s just as agitated as Sam is right now. Still on the cusp of declining adrenaline to bring a little bit of fight. 

“No way, princess. You take waaay too long. All the local diners by the time I’m finished”

“Then I’ll drive”

Dean scoffs at that. Sam knew he would, but he’s at his limit right now. Everything is getting muddled. 

“Look,” Sam sighs. “How about we do this? And I’ll give you first shower” 

He slowly slips past Dean into the gap between the two queens; his fingers slide over the switch for the lamp. Turning, he finds Dean’s eyes focused on him. It’s only a meeting in the silence, a simple gaze, but Sam knows that they both understand what’s going to happen. 

The lights go off. 

Neither of them say a word. 

Sam makes the first move—he thinks, he can’t exactly see clearly right now with the darkness shrouding him. His hands reach out for Dean, right leg accidentally bumping into the bed. His fingers come in contact with something smooth, yet soft, pliant against his sudden hold. Grip tightening, he twists them both around to the point where he can see a slither of white hitting the walls on the other side of the bed—Dean’s bed. But he still can’t see Dean, just a silhouette. 

_ “It’s better this way,” _Sam wants to think. 

Sam’s knees hit the back of the bed behind him just in time for his hands to find and rest at Dean’s shoulders. As Sam plops down onto the bed, Dean falls before him to the ground with a thud. There’s a slight pressure on his foot, but it’s quickly removed. Slowly, Sam loosens his grip and drops his arms to his sides, allowing Dean the option to leave if he wanted. 

It’s not a surprise when fingers begin to trail up his legs. Neither of them had denied this before. 

Maybe, it’s because they don’t know how to. 

Doesn’t take long for the soft touches to locate his belt and, soon, the clacking of the buckle is the only sound to be heard. Movements are impossibly slow: intimate. Sam wishes they could become more intimate in a way other sex. That they didn’t need two queens and have a king instead; through the night, their arms would be loosely around each other with legs tangled in knots to the point that neither know which limb is their own and that doesn’t really matter.

Sam lifts himself up slightly as Dean tugs his underwear and jeans down to his ankles. It’s cold. His breath hitches when he can feel the warmth of flesh around his cock and he can feel it hardening underneath the hold.

Dean kisses the tip and Sam wishes it were his own lips instead. 

His hands instinctively move to curl around short locks of what he believes to be Dean’s hair. There’s a pause; Sam can feel the short puffs of air against his member.

He imagines Dean’s face, still painted in grime, dirty pretty lips parting to swallow his dick and, shit, Sam’s still got monster guts painted all over him and it’s going to get all over the bed, but the thought soon fades as he feels a pleasant, sticky heat wrap around his cock. 

Dean sucks like a champ with the lack of gag reflex that he’s got, but it’s also more than that. He knows every spot that makes Sam tick as Sam knows the every spot that makes Dean tick. Dean licks the underside of the head and Sam has to stifle back a moan. His fingers, in turn, tug on the strands and he’s rewarded with a vibration and a bruising grip on his thigh. 

Sam tries to peer through the empty to see something, but there’s nothing to see. 

But he can still sense the touch of Dean’s other hand stumbling across his body, from his thigh to his waist to the center of the abdomen. There’s a push and Dean sucks hard and Sam finds himself falling further into the darkness. 

No, not further, he’s always been in this darkness with Dean, tumbling together in this black hole, holding onto each other as tight as they can until neither of them can find the place where one of them starts and the other ends. And the lines between them will keep blurring and blurring until they start to bleed into each other. 

Suddenly, there’s something wet prodding at his entrance and Sam gasps:

“Fuck, Dean” 

Then it freezes. 

Shit. 

All touch is quickly removed as if they recoiled backwards in an allergic reaction and he can hear thumps in the carpet: a set of footsteps that are scampering away. 

Sam catches a glimpse of the moon as the door swings open. 

The last thing he sees is a silhouette that disappears to the click of a lock before it all goes dark again. 

—

They don’t talk after; whenever Sam tries to, Dean ends up glaring at him.

Ever since this morning, Dean’s been doing things at his own pace: grabbed his keys off the table after he finished packing his duffle and swinging the door open while Sam scrambled to follow along. The car ride was accompanied by a couple of angry expressions and that led them here: to this unremarkable diner. 

He tells himself that it isn’t awkward to be obviously ignoring each other from opposite sides of this compact booth even though the server’s looks tell otherwise. No, Dean’s the only one doing the ignoring right now and Sam is forced to cooperate. 

It’s not like Sam can blame him. 

He broke a rule. This is his punishment. 

It won’t take long for the two of them to go back to normal. Nothing will change. They’ll still be crumbling and Sam will still keep latching onto the shards with his already bloody hands. Until they’re truly utterly broken. 

It’s enough.

He’ll give his all and he’ll take all that is given and it’ll feel like love.

Sam’s pulled out of his thoughts as Dean stands to his feet, chugging down the last of his coffee. A newspaper is shoved into his arms; a block of text on it is circled multiple times in dark ink. Teenager hung himself in an abandoned cabin in Nebraska. Suicide the police are calling it, but family and friends disagree, calling it a murder instead.

“Seems like a salt—” Sam starts, glancing up to see that Dean is already gone. 

Quickly, he finishes his coffee and scrambles out of the diner with a polite nod to their server. 

—

It took a day for Dean to start talking to him again. 

They finished the case in two. 

Once they had arrived in town, getting information was easy; all they had to do is flash a couple of badges and the trail of clues were all laid out in front of them. 

Practically in and out without any complications.

“We should celebrate,” Dean had said with a grin and drove them to the nearest bar. 

The place wasn’t too shabby; what you’d expect to see at a nameless town bar. There were a few pretty girls wearing tiny shorts and tank tops sauntering around the room with a dangerous gleam in their eyes. A couple of burly bikers in their leather jackets playing pool to the side. 

Dean walks in with confidence, strolling up to the bar counter and asking for a shot of whiskey. 

A charming smile stretches across his face as he orders. It shouldn’t be allowed. Pearly white teeth and pink lips. Was just around his dick a couple of days ago. God.

Sam forces himself to look away; his attention turns to the bartender instead. 

“A beer,” he says, trying to flash a polite smile, but it weakens when he hears a girl giggle dangerously close by. “Please”

His eyes peek over to see that a sweet nobody has made their way next Dean. Long brown hair and big boobs that are contained in the skimpiest tank top. She’s just asking for trouble, but Sam wishes that he was her. Because the way that Dean smirks and speaks all polite and seductive is what he wants too.

When the beer bottle is placed in front of him, Sam takes it and heads towards an empty table, settling himself there. He takes a swig as he watches from afar. Watches as the girl gets closer and closer. It’s completely unfair.

Strangers; he wishes Dean and him were strangers because then there wouldn’t be these stack of reasons that create walls between them. In the realm of strangers, it wouldn’t be _ wrong _ and they’d be able to be together. 

Yet, at the same time, that kind of thinking brings about a question: have they ever been in the right? They’ve been defying the law ever since they were kids, defining their own sense of justice. If that’s so, then why are they trying to abide by societal structure. 

They were never normal, so why try to be?

Sam doesn’t really think as he marches over, slams a couple of bills on the counter, and pulls Dean away by the wrist. A string of protests follows him outside into the cool summer night with only the lights of the stars and a single street lamp to erase the present darkness: “Hey, hey, hey” 

They make it a couple feet away from the door before Dean is able to rip his hand from Sam’s grasp.

“What the fuck, Sam?!” Dean exclaims. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Dean” 

“What?” Dean asks. It’s not really a question. More of a warning to not go there, but Sam’s already rushing past go. 

“You know what?” Sam states firmly and Dean just stares at him with his mouth parted slightly like he’s trying to find the words to stop this, but he’s unable to say anything. 

“Why can’t we have this?” Sam pressures on, searching for something, anything, in Dean’s eyes. A semblance of the truth. A semblance of mutual feelings. 

Dean looks away, head hung low.

“You left” he says; it’s almost a whisper, but the silence of the night carries it through. Images flash through Sam’s mind: the bus stop, the silence, the cracks on Dean’s unreadable expression being softly glazed over with the blue light from street lamps above. 

He had forgotten it. 

The anger was wrapped so tightly in his heart back then that his head couldn’t take it, having to suppress the entire shit storm. Now that the anger is gone, all he can feel is regret. He can’t make up for the things he said that night. For things he did that night. 

“But I’m here now and I’m not going to leave, not now, not ever,” Sam says, tugging at Dean’s arm to make Dean look at him this time. Look at him without the ferocity of that night. Really look at the present him. “Isn’t that enough?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes, trying to say words that never come out. Then, Dean wrenches himself out of Sam’s grip and grabs onto Sam’s jacket, yanking him in close. Dean is stumbling back a bit due the sheer force of his pull, and before Sam knows it, Dean’s lips are on his, kissing him. Sam hands curl around Dean’s waist as he relaxes into, succumbing to what they now have. 

It goes on for a while before both of them have to part for air and that’s when Sam sees _ him _for the first time in the golden light of the streetlamp that is showering over them and he tugs him back in again for another kiss. 

They bathe in that light as if it came from the sun, not caring if it ends up burning their skin. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow aristotle on [twitter](https://twitter.com/twinkjared) if you like samdean 😼👍


End file.
